


make much of time

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Post-Episode: s14e04 Mint Condition, Season/Series 14, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: When Dean and Sam get back from their solo hunt, Jack has a surprising request.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jack Kline/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: fic for fire relief [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 24
Kudos: 90





	make much of time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andthenweburned (dragonardhill)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonardhill/gifts).



> Written for wildfire relief.

After the craziness of their Halloween hunt, it’s good to be back in Kansas. Dean isn’t totally whole, probably won’t be for a while. Sam knows what it’s like to be possessed better than just about anyone else alive, he knows what the aftereffects are. Still, the hunt—getting out of his room, getting away from it all—Sam knows that it helped, too, and Dean’s happier on that drive home than he’s been in weeks, and even the crowd of cars parked up in front of the bunker don’t dim his grin, still wheedling Sam to try to get him to agree to a couple costume, for some future Halloween Dean’s thinking they might both see.

"Daphne and Velma," Dean offers, parking the Impala in her pride of place down in the garage, and Sam squints at him, trying not to laugh, says, "Which one of us is Velma?" and Dean says, reproachfully, "Sam, please take this seriously," and Sam looks around the empty garage, and pulls Dean in by that stupid plaid jacket, and kisses him soft, right there, because they’re—home. They’re finally home.

They messed around that first night, gripping at each other, desperate. Sam's hands on Dean's face, finally wearing an expression Sam recognized, trying to stay quiet because the bunker was full of strangers. Their mom, in the kitchen with the refugees. Their friends, too close. Dean stayed in his room afterward and it was left to Sam to try to explain to everyone how it was, to tell Jack that Dean needed to be alone right now—to remember how it felt, those early days after being possessed, the way the skin felt unfamiliar and when someone said something, you half-expected a voice not your own to respond.

Dean's—here, though. Here, finally, in the car and in the bunker and under Sam's hands, and he pulls back with his eyes half-closed, his mouth still parted, and he looks up at Sam and Sam—god. Wants him. Very badly. If he'd been thinking about it, they could've stayed in a motel somewhere between there and here—or, god, parked the car in some abandoned rest-stop and let it feel like the craziness of when Sam was twenty-three and raw, all the time, with wanting him. They're too old for that, now. Maybe. As it stands, it's Dean who pulls back further, but lets his knuckles graze where Sam's let his stubble get a little too rough, and his eyes—jesus, his eyes. Sam leans against his door. "Your room," he says, "or mine?"

Dean licks his lips. Sam's dick jumps, in these cheap starchy pants. "Yours," Dean says, "but give me a minute, okay," and Sam breathes out and nods and gets out of the car, doesn't look back. It'll give him a minute to calm down, too. A minute to be responsible, when he feels like he wants to say fuck responsibility and fuck all the work they have to do and disappear away, to some mountain-side cabin, with pizza delivery and a case of whiskey and absolutely no reason for either of them to wear clothes, for a month.

Not a lot of people around. Mom's away, and Cas is away, and Deborah is leading her team on a culling of a ghoul infestation in Indianapolis, and Maggie and Hank are quizzing each other in the library on what the signs are of feeding vampire, and Roland's on the phones, watching Friends on his laptop, and he smiles at Sam and seems genuinely glad to see him. "How was the hunt, Chief?" he says, and Sam smiles, gets to say, "Good," and it's true. It felt like a new day. Like an old day, made new.

Lights are dimmed in the residential hallways. It's midnight; people are asleep. He passes the shower room and hears water hissing and thinks, _Dean_ , and feels the pulse in his gut, in his nuts. He heads to his room, and shucks the goofy insurance disguise Dean insisted on, and his boots, and in his t-shirt and khakis and bare feet he brushes his teeth, washes his face. Tucks his hair behind his ears, looking at himself. The beard wasn't that bad, he thinks, but he doesn't miss it. He rubs a hand over his jaw and thinks—yeah, and shaves again, scraping his jaw clean and smooth, wiping off after with a soft towel. Easier, when he's completely smooth, to convince Dean of other things, and he's biting his lip, checking with his knuckles to make sure he didn't miss anything, when there's a soft knock on the door, and he laughs a little and says, "Yeah, come in," and the door opens, and it's—Jack.

"Oh," he says. Jack smiles at him and closes the door nearly all the way, an inch of hallway still showing. "Hey—Jack, I thought you were in bed."

"I was," Jack says. Earnest, like he always is. "I was waiting."

He's in his pajamas—white t-shirt, soft flannel pants. "Waiting?" Sam says. He sits on the end of the bed and gestures Jack to the desk chair, but Jack just stands in the middle of the floor, his hands twisting a little in front of him. Sam frowns. "Everything okay?"

"Well—" Jack frowns, too, looking to some middle distance. "Kind of. It's just—now that I'm without my powers, I've been… thinking."

Sam nods, encouraging. Wondering, too, when Dean's getting out of the shower, but it wouldn't be the end of the world if Dean were here for this. They'll just start the other thing later.

"So," Jack says—bites his lip, and starts pacing. Nervous. "Okay. So, I'm human. And, I've been learning to hunt, and learning all my—weaknesses, right?" It's a very short pacing route. "But I'm also learning… there's so much that I haven't been able to do, stuff everyone knows how to do. Like, Maggie was telling me about concerts. Even before everything blew up in her universe, she'd been to like ten concerts, and she didn't get why I hadn't."

"You didn't exactly grow up the same as everyone else," Sam says, cautiously.

Jack stops pacing and points at him. "Exactly!" He fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt. "Everyone else got to grow up, and I'm like—a year and a half old, and when I talk to normal people they expect me to be twenty-something and I can't exactly say, sorry, I've only been alive for 518 days, and I don't know how to do—anything!"

Sam smiles at him. "I get it," he says, and he sort of does. "We didn't really grow up normal, either, Jack."

"But you _got_ to grow up," Jack says, and he sounds wounded enough about it that Sam pauses, looking at him more closely. He's—nervous, still. Sad. Sam sits up straighter but Jack's taken a deep breath, his jaw flexing. "I don't—want to be a freak, but I'm a freak. And I—I want—"

He comes closer and Sam tips his head back, keeping eye contact. Jack looks between his eyes, and leans down, and when his lips brush Sam's it's so entirely unexpected that Sam doesn't think to dodge. Brief—dry, warm—and by the time Sam's flinched away Jack's standing up again, eyes a little wild around the edges but his expression set.

"Jack," Sam says. Feels idiotic. He touches his mouth, with a general sensation like he just got hit by a bus.

"I want to learn how to do this," Jack says, determined. "I don't—nobody gets it but you, and I don't trust anybody but you, and everybody else just…" He shakes his head. Strained, still. Like there's something he's not saying. Sam sits forward, tries to think what to say, except then Jack—goes to his knees, on the concrete, looking up at Sam from the floor. "Please," he says, putting his hands on Sam's thighs, and that's when the door pushes open, and there's Dean, wrapped in a towel, standing in the doorway with his face a total shock.

"Oh, good," Jack says, turning his head to look. "I wanted you here."

"Yeah?" Dean says. Faint edge of danger. He meets Sam's eyes and Sam shakes his head a little, and Dean's eyes narrow for a half-second before he closes the door behind him, carefully. He's pale in the lamplight, like Michael never let him get any sun; his skin gleams, barely damp, like he rushed here from the shower room. "What did you want me here for?"

"I want to know what sex is like," Jack says, and Sam in a distant, bizarre way at least gets to enjoy Dean's face, hearing that. Jack's still on his knees, though, still touching Sam's leg, and he's looking at Dean now, still determined. "You and Sam are the only ones who can teach me."

Dean's face goes blank. "Why—us?" he says. Like he's not half-naked in Sam's room. Sam closes his eyes, realizing before Jack says it.

"You have sex with each other," Jack says, like it's obvious, and Sam blows out a weird, tangled breath. When he looks Dean's lips are parted but he's silent. Jack looks back and forth between them, frowning. "Oh—don't worry, I never told anyone. Castiel said it was a secret and no one else was supposed to know, so we never talked about it after that. But you do it together, so you should both be here."

Jesus. Dean looks at Sam, over Jack's calm assurance, and Sam shakes his head, feels his face getting hot. Cas and Jack, just chatting about it. Agreeing not to talk. Making sure Jack didn't tell other people—the refugees, Maggie, _Mom_ —

Jack stands up, finally. "Please," he says, again, and Dean's eyes refocus. Sam swims past the dizzying awful realization of being _found out_ —god, _when?_ —to focus, too, on Jack's hands, on his voice. Nervous again. "I just—I've seen movies, you know? People go out and—and meet each other, they flirt, they date. I can't do anything like that. I don't have anybody I can trust to do that, because what if they—and everyone says, in books and stuff, they say it's good, that it's the best thing, especially when it's with someone who cares about you, and I want to know what it's like." He looks at the floor. "Once, at least."

Sam's frowning. There's an edge to it, a strangeness. Dean's not frowning at all, though. He's looking at Jack's downturned face, his eyes a little tight. Thinking, but not rejecting.

"Dean," Sam says, and Jack looks at him but Dean just keeps looking at Jack. "Seriously?"

When he was seventeen he'd wanted nothing more in the universe than to kiss Dean. His brother. It was wrong—he'd known it was wrong, every single particle in his body knew that. He'd wanted it anyway. He'd broken his life in half to get away from it. This feels wrong, the same way that did.

Dean reaches out and touches Jack's shoulder, and Jack's attention snaps to him. "Kid, it doesn't fix anything," he says. Serious. Kind but not exactly nice, the way Dean can be, sometimes. "If you're—freaked out or scared or feeling bad about something, getting off doesn't make it go away. Just means you think about it later."

"I'm not trying to fix anything," Jack says. Sort of—small. "I just…"

His head ducks and Dean does look, then, at Sam, and Sam feels nearly dizzy. It was wrong, when he was seventeen. It hasn't felt wrong in… a decade. Longer. It's been frustration and pain, and comfort, and just—home, the only thing he needs, but never wrong, never. Dean looks at him and there's something, there, of the way he looked at Sam when Sam was twenty-three, and miserable, and didn't know how to ask for what he wanted. Dean seeing it, and meeting it with kindness. His brother.

Sam swallows. Nods. Dean's mouth lifts, just at the one corner, just a little, and then he says, quietly, "Jack." Jack looks up at him and Dean smiles for real, unexpectedly soft. "You tell us, okay? The second something doesn't feel right. We'll stop and we won't say another word about it."

Jack looks, for some reason, at Sam. "I know," he says, and Sam smiles at him, too, even if it feels shaky. Jack's young. Physically adult, mentally adult, but—young.

Dean comes closer. His bare feet are noiseless on the concrete. He stands in front of Jack, arm's reach from Sam, and knocks his chin up with a knuckle. "You kissed anyone, before?" Dean says, a little rough-edged, and Jack glances at Sam but shakes his head, and Dean says, "Okay, then," and cups Jack's face in his hands, and dips, and kisses him.

Sam grips his knees. Jack makes a little noise, his hands fisting in the air. Dean pulls back, tips Jack's face a little, kisses him again. Again. Small, closed-mouth, tender. The faintest smoochy noises, from their lips moving, and Jack's chest heaves in a deep, visible breath. He doesn't know what to do with his hands but his cheeks are getting pink, and Sam—jesus, jesus. It's pretty. Dean knows how to kiss, knows how to make it sweet as much as he knows how to make it filthy, and Jack makes another tiny sound and his hands land on Dean's arms, holding on tight.

"That's good," Dean says, soft, when he lifts his head, and Jack blinks at him but goes pinker, pleased. "That feel okay?"

"Yeah," Jack says. Small. He glances, again, at Sam, and Dean looks at Sam too, and Sam's hot in the face, frozen.

"What do you want, Jack?" Dean says. Jack shrugs. "You know what sex is?"

"From movies," Jack says. "And that website you like, um. Something with a hamster?" Sam frowns at Dean and Dean lifts a shoulder, unabashed. "But the one I saw was with three ladies, and I don't think—Castiel said that there was a difference between pornography and what people do when no one's paying them."

"Oh, Cas said, good," Dean says, and does a good job of not laughing. "Well, you know what a man looks like, right? Naked. You look at yourself, in the mirror?"

Jack tips his head, uncertain. "Not—really," he says, slowly, and Dean says, "Well, let's look," and then he says, "Sammy, why don't you take your clothes off."

Sam swallows. "You're the one in the towel." Feels like he hasn't spoken in six months, his voice is so raw. Dean lifts his eyebrows—challenging, for some reason, when it's not like any of this was Sam's idea in the first place. It's Jack, though, who looks interested, his eyes darting from Sam's face to his chest, to lower, and Sam takes a deep breath. "You want to see?" he says, to Jack, and he doesn't mean it to sound sleazy but Jack blinks, and for the first time he looks—interested, his eyes pooling a little darker. His lips are pink, from being kissed. Something warms in Sam's belly. Both of them, watching him.

He's not showy. He pulls his t-shirt off same as he always does, reaching behind and tugging it off over his hair. He stands up and Jack's eyes follow him all the way, and he doesn't hesitate before unbuttoning, unzipping, shoving the khakis to the floor. Boxer-briefs below that, and Jack really is looking, now, his eyes fixed south. Dean's looking at Sam's face and Sam wrinkles his nose, and Dean grins, wraps his arm around Jack's shoulder, speaks soft against his ear: "Sammy's shy, sometimes, you know? Like I haven't seen it."

"Maybe if you weren't such a horndog about it," Sam says, and Jack blinks, glances between them, like he's not sure what to do with teasing in this context. "I'm good, Jack."

He is. Shouldn’t be, but is. Jack licks his lips and looks back down, and Sam looks, too—the grey fabric clinging to the heavy shape of his balls, his dick, half-plump just from the idea of what they're about to do. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and shucks the briefs down, over his package and lower, until they're loose enough to kick off along with the pants, and it feels—bizarre, for a second, just standing there like an anatomy dummy, with his brother and this kid—their kid—he shakes his head, but Dean's shifting around, standing behind Jack, holding his shoulders. "See," he says, easy, and Jack nods, looking. "Do you want to kiss him?"

Jack blinks. Sam does, too, but it swings low through his gut, tightening. "Yeah," Jack says, and Sam steps forward and doesn't ask, just gathers up Jack's face and goes for it—faster than Dean had, but Jack sucks in a gasp and sways forward, grasping at his arm, his bare chest. Sam tips his head, makes it better, and when he presses Jack's mouth open Jack makes one of those tiny noises, this little startled thing that makes Sam cup his head, makes Sam want to pick him up and cradle him. He could—Jack's slight enough, smaller than him, and Sam could—and he bites breathlessly soft at Jack's lower lip, presses their foreheads together, pulls back. Jack's wet-mouthed, big-eyed, his face pink. Dean's hand appears, cupping Sam's cheek, and Sam kisses it quick, lifts his head. Dean's ears are pink to match Jack's cheeks and Sam smiles at him, smug enough that Dean rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, okay, Mr. Overachiever," Dean says, but he dips and kisses the side of Jack's neck when he says it, and Jack tips his head, surprised, still gripping Sam's arm. Dean slips his arm around Jack's chest, his fingers tucking into the v of his shirt collar so he's brushing hidden skin, and he kisses Jack under the ear, and lets his thumb play in the little shadowed hollow of his throat. "Jack," he says, and gets a hesitant _mhm?_ in response. "Me and Sammy are gonna take care of you." Another opportunity to be sleazy—it's not. It's warm. Like they're teaching him how to handle a pistol, encouraging and careful. Jack blinks at Sam and Sam nods, thumbing over Jack's smooth jaw. "You want something, you don't want something, you tell us, okay? But we'll handle everything, all right? We're not gonna ask you to do something you don't know how to do."

Sam doesn't expect the relief that sweeps over Jack's face. Dean understanding something, here, that Sam didn't. "Okay," Jack says, small but glad, and Dean's eyelashes dip, for a second. "I trust you."

Sam wants, abruptly, to go to his knees. Get Jack's dick in his hand, in his mouth. He's seen it—first time he ever saw Jack, he was naked, his body perfect and golden-pale and smooth—but Jack's been shy, since then. Like he learned what clothes were for and took it too much to heart. Dean licks the corner of his mouth, thinking, and then looks at Sam, clear-eyed. "Bed," he says, and Sam goes.

He sits, and Dean guides Jack to sit beside him. Sam drags a soothing hand up his back, but his eyes are on Dean taking off the towel. His dick's thick between his legs, curving over his balls, and Sam's mouth really is watering, now. Dean folds the towel sloppy, drops it, and when he goes to his knees on it Sam was expecting it and still, his stomach flips, hot. "I'm gonna jerk Sam off," Dean says, to Jack, and Sam closes his eyes. "Watch, okay?"

His hand—warm, the calluses exactly where Sam knows they'll be. "You done this?" Dean asks, almost casual, and firms his grip, pumping Sam full. Sam spreads his legs, his knee bumping Jack's, and Jack says, "Um," and while Dean switches up his grip, his thumb dragging sloppy under the crown—"Yeah, one time."

Sam groans and has to look—Jack, his eyes riveted to Sam's crotch, and Dean watching Jack's face, his hand moving almost on automatic. "Did you like it?" Sam says. Jack bites his lip, uncertain.

"Oh, buddy, you've gotta practice more," Dean says, grinning, and drags his fingers down to Sam's nuts, cupping them warmly. "Go ahead and kiss Sammy again, huh?" Jack does—turns his body, leans in, and Sam lets him come, lets him control the pace. A little clumsy but learning quickly, like Jack always does, even without his grace. He licks Sam's lip, tentatively, and Sam opens for him, holding Jack's shoulder warm and bony through the t-shirt, and Sam thinks that this part, this is probably easier, without the grace. Just his body, human and frail and inarticulately needing. Physicality, without complication.

A tug—Dean, pulling Jack back. His lips are wet and Sam's dick twitches. Dean kisses Jack under the jaw, still there on his knees, and says, "How about we get your clothes off, too," coaxing, convincing. Jack drags in air, nods, and Sam helps—pulling his t-shirt up, while Jack raises his arms like a little kid. Dean unlaces the tie on his flannel pants and pats his hip, and Jack lifts, and when Dean tugs the pants down he takes Jack's boxers with them, and then it's just his perfect, unblemished skin—and his dick, already hard, just from kissing, from watching them. Pretty, a nice handful—dark pink, straight, the foreskin pulled back enough to see the soft tip. Sam licks his lips, but it's Dean who says, "Looking good, kiddo," which is just—weird in this context, but Jack smiles, pink all over. Dean lifts up and kisses him, and then kisses his throat, his collarbone, the center of his chest. Sam reaches over, smooths a hand down Jack's chest—the slightest swell of his pec—rubs his nipple and feels it go immediately hard. Sensitive there, then. Sensitive everywhere, by the looks of things, as Dean moves wetly slow down his belly, Jack's breath faster and his hands dancing uncertainly over Dean's shoulders. Sam sees it, when Dean wraps a hand around Jack's dick, from Jack's face alone—how he flinches, gasps. "I'm gonna get you off," Dean says, lifting his head. "Jerk it, just like I did for Sam. Take the edge off, huh?"

"The edge?" Jack says, uncertain, but Dean's working his dick, then, jerking him in firm sure pumps, and Jack arches into it, eyes scrunching closed. Dean's not doing anything other than a handjob, kissing Jack's stomach while he does it, but even that is clearly more sensation than Jack knows what to do with, right now. Sam pets over his chest, playing easily with his nipples, kisses his shoulder and his throat, but Jack's not coordinated enough to kiss back—all good, when Sam just gets to watch, down his flushing torso, Dean kissing softly at Jack's hip and making it good for him. When they were younger Sam and Dean brought a woman back to a motel together, once, and Sam has a flash of how it was then—Dean between her legs, making her moan, and Sam holding her up just like this, watching. How good it was. Getting to see her fall apart, but getting to see Dean work, too, knowing what her body needed and giving it, generous and glad.

Jack comes fast. He makes an endearingly dumb little noise, this gulpy moan, and he grabs both of them—Sam's hand on his chest, Dean's working shoulder—and it's the only warning before he's jerking, flinching, groaning way too loud, spurting over Dean's hand. Dean grins at Sam, capably pumping Jack through it, and Sam kisses Jack's shoulder to hide his own smile. Hair-trigger—what was that, two minutes?—but it's sweet. Cute. Everything about Jack is cute.

"Not bad, right?" Dean says, and Jack pants and squirms and shudders. "Yeah, you got it. Okay—all right, come here—" and he lifts up, and between them they bear Jack down, to his back on the bed, and Dean leans over him, kissing him, smearing his gross hand up Jack's hip and his side while Sam goes to get a washcloth, and by the time he gets back Dean's already playing with Jack's neat little ballsack, rubbing warm and coaxing.

"Wow," is what Jack finally says, when his mouth's released, when his brain's back on this plane. He coughs, briefly, shakes his head. "That was—jeez. I didn't—when I did it—"

"It's always different with someone else," Sam says, sitting down by Jack's hip, gets an uncertain smile for it. He drags the wet washcloth over Jack's skin where Dean left a mess, and then, carefully, over his spent dick. Dean rubs his hand comfortingly over Jack's breastbone and Sam watches his face, discards the washcloth. Wraps his hand around the shaft, feels it warm, plump. Wanting, still. His body's eager, young. He'll be ready again in minutes.

"Hey," Dean says, and Jack's attention switches from staring at Sam's hand to where Dean's inches away. Another brief kiss, just sweet, and Dean's hand slips down to Jack's belly, spreading wide there. "Still good?"

Jack nods, fervent. "Really, really good." His dick's already thickening, even with Sam just holding him and hardly squeezing. He bites his lip. "Can I—" he starts. He touches the back of Dean's hand, careful.

"Buddy, you can do whatever you want," Dean says, laughing a little, and Jack grins and reaches up and kisses him, and slides his hand carefully over, and touches Dean's dick—softly, uncertain. Dean makes a pleased sound and grips Jack's hip, pulling his weight in to make it easier, and Jack makes a small surprised noise, and a fist.

God, it's hot. Dean's not hard all the way, not dripping yet, but it just means Jack has room to play, to feel. Sam leans in and kisses his shoulder, says quietly, "He likes it when you rub the base, there," and Jack huffs air and does it, and Dean groans, pushes his hips into Jack's hand. Jack says, "Oh, wow," half under his breath, and Sam laughs, leans in, helps.

It's uncoordinated, relaxed. Sam can't believe how relaxed. Jack wants to touch, wants to feel. He's not expecting anything but he trusts them. All Sam wants is to repay that with kindness, and Dean repays it with—making Jack feel as good as possible. Guiding him, teaching. When Sam was this age he doesn't remember it being so gentle, so easy, but then things were raw between him and his brother, then. With Jack it's easy somehow to let it just be… fun. Sam guides him into a good rhythm for jerking Dean's dick, closing his hand over Jack's to help, and Dean groans, pushing his hips into it, and then he says, "Wait, wait, Uno reverse card," like an absolute dork, and flips Jack around between them, and then Jack's warm and slim and available for Sam to kiss, and an eager hand's on Sam's dick, squeezing, Dean's voice urging him on, saying, "Yeah, feel that? It's dumb, right? Whose dick is even that big."

"Um, Sam's?" Jack says, and Sam laughs while Dean scoffs, and gathers Jack's face up into a kiss.

"Yeah, and it's a pain in the ass," Dean says. "Literally. Good thing I got practice, is all I'm saying."

"You love it," Sam says, pulling back and looking at Dean across Jack's temple, and Dean rolls his eyes, but he's more focused on playing with Jack's nipple, and doesn't respond.

"Practice?" Jack says. He's pink again, his cheeks and his lips and his nipple where Dean keeps toying with it, rubbing the tight bead. Sam ducks, kisses it and catches Dean's thumb too, licking broad and wet, while Dean says, up above, "Yeah, kiddo. He puts it in me. Right—here—" and Jack takes a breath deep and sharp enough that his chest lifts up against Sam's mouth, and Sam edges further down, half-off the bed so he has room to kiss Jack's belly, his hip, his hand slipping down to feel where—god, yeah, Dean's touching him, pressing thick fingers between Jack's thighs. "Don't tell him," Dean says, in an exaggerated stupid whisper, "but it feels friggin' awesome."

Jack laughs, hiccupy. "Oh," he says, brainless, and Sam groans and kisses the thin skin where his pelvis is palest, his dick right there, pink and ready. "Is it hard?"

Dean snorts. To his credit he doesn't take the pun when it's offered but says, "Kinda, but it's worth it," and Jack says, "Can I try?" and Sam presses his forehead to Jack's hip and says, "Fuck, Dean, do it," because the image is just—incredible. Jack, sensitive and eager and clinging, wanting everything, and Dean—god, Dean when he's fucking, the hottest thing Sam's ever seen.

They shove around again. Not enough room in these stupid, stupid beds—for the first time Sam actually wants the king mattress Dean's always pretending to almost-order. Dean pulls Jack over, sprawling together, and Sam helps so they end up with Dean on his back, Jack spread over his lap, his knees digging into the hard mattress, his hands lighting uncertain on Dean's chest. Sam kisses his shoulders, kneeling up behind him—high enough to see Dean's face, smiling encouragement, his hands dragging up and down Jack's long smooth thighs. They're both nearly-hairless, though Jack's scatter of pubic hair is barely-visible light brown, while Dean's got that surprising gingery dark, like his beard, trimmed neat. Sam kisses the side of Jack's neck, slides his hand down to feel Jack's dick plump and ready, and Dean's the one who reaches for the bedside table, for the lube they haven't gotten to use nearly enough.

"Hold on," Dean says, serious as a hunt, and Jack tips forward when Sam urges it—braces his hands on the brick wall above the bed and on Dean's shoulder, and Sam gets to see his arched narrow back, his hips tilting enough that his dick brushes Dean's, but he comes in close, gets his mouth on the bolt of Jack's jaw, because he's sliding his fingers down, holding Jack's ass open, where—god, yeah, yeah, Dean's hand is slick, and he's already massaging there, at the hole, getting Jack used to feeling it.

"There," Dean says, and Jack nods even though no one's asking him a question, rising up a little on his knees to make more room. Dean grins, catching Sam's eye, and Sam refrains—barely—from sinking his teeth into Jack's shoulder. "Yeah. I'm gonna put my fingers in, right here. Make you open, make it easy."

Jack groans. His asshole's so small, furled and tight, the skin slippery from all the lube Dean's using. "Because I—I don't have practice," he says, and Sam drops his head, presses his forehead to the back of Jack's neck, his fingers tangling with Dean's.

"Yeah," Dean says, rougher. "Yeah, because no one's been here before, right? Just us."

"Just you," Jack says, hardly any air in it, and Dean's fingers curve, turn—and Sam feels it, all along Jack's spine, when that first finger goes in. His back shocks straight, the sensation alien. He holds Jack's hips, presses full body against his back, and Jack makes a sighing strange sound, muscle rippling against Sam's chest.

"Tell us," Sam says, and Jack says, "I—" and rolls his hips, jerking almost. "Oh, it's—weird."

"Yeah, it is," Dean says. Sam drops a hand to feel and Dean's already pushing his middle finger in and out, easy with the amount of lube everywhere, a little parody of fucking. "Yeah—like it's not supposed to be there, right? But it feels good anyway. How it rubs like that."

Jesus, that's—Jack's nodding, pushing his hips back into it. Sam kisses his shoulders, runs his teeth up the side of Jack's neck. He's sweating already, his neck and ears pink, and when Sam looks Dean's just as flushed, working Jack's dick with his other hand, breathing through an open mouth. Sam catches his eye and Dean looks—christ, debauched, filthy. The corner of his mouth lifts. "Drives me crazy, here," Dean says. He pulls his fingers out, comes back with two, and Jack lets out a stuttery moan when they squeeze inside. "Yeah, like that. Sometimes I get off just like this, you know that? In the shower. It's that feeling, the way it opens you up. Reminds me of someone."

Sam's dick jerks, pressed up against the back of Jack's thigh. He didn't know that. Dean moves his wrist and Jack moans again, loud, and Dean grips his neck and pulls him down, kisses him. Jack's fingers tighten on the brick, his hips shoving into the feeling, and Sam can't take it anymore—he dips down, spreads Jack's ass apart. God—pretty, slicked-up and already reddening from how Dean's working him, Dean's fingers splitting him open. Sam bites one ass-cheek and feels Jack flinch in surprise—breathes hot, on Dean's fingers, so he'll know it's coming—and when he licks in it's the plasticky taste of the lube but Jack's skin is incredibly hot, underneath, and he makes a muffled noise up above, and this—this good, this is what Sam's been craving, his mouth watering off and on.

"Oh, lucky," Dean says. He spreads his legs, makes more room for Sam to kneel in, to get his face right in there. He's glad he shaved. Sam licks along his knuckles, the stretched ring of skin, hardly any hair back here to interrupt the smooth hot stretch. "Oh, that's good, huh? Yeah—Sammy loves doing this. Like making you feel good, likes making you make noise. Total control freak." Sam licks hard and Dean's fingers slip out almost to the tips, and it's wet enough back here that Sam can push his thumb in, breaking into Jack—finally, finally, feeling the heat inside, slick and tight and soft all at once. Jack groans and Sam pulls out, sucks there where he's so wet, and Dean laughs, his hands slipping away to give Sam room. "He might make you come just like this, kiddo, is that okay?"

" _Yes_ ," Jack says, loud, and Sam slips a hand between Jack and Dean's bodies to feel Jack's dick, his balls already tight and high, his pole stiff in Sam's palm. He licks deep, breathing hard, and twists his hand to feel Dean—full, thick. He spits, into Jack's hole, and feels Dean's dick twitch for it—always gets Dean, that move, and apparently it works no matter who Sam's doing it to—but he backs up, then, bites Jack's ass, lifts his hips.

"Look at Dean," Sam says, and Jack's head drops between his high shoulders but he does it, because he's so good—always so good for them, doing what he needs to—and Sam reaches but Dean's already there, fitting himself against where they've made Jack soft, letting him brace for it. Sam raises up on his knees, presses right up to Jack's back again, sliding comforting hands up his ribs. "Okay," he says, and looks at Dean. "Now."

Jack's so hot for it that it's easy, easy. He groans, while Dean pushes up, but Sam's pushing him down, too, seating it deep, and Sam watches while Jack's dick flexes, the shock of it rippling through his body. Dean's eyes are closed and Sam wants very badly to know how it feels—how tight he is, how crushing the heat of it must be—remembers, instantly, that first time with Dean, how he felt like he was gonna die when he got all the way inside—but he breathes out and tips Jack's chin around, and Jack's—oh, red-faced, his eyes fever-bright, his lips bitten. "Does it hurt," Sam says, queerly almost wanting it to, but Jack shakes his head and that's gone—Sam kisses him instead and he's not careful, but Jack groans into him and kisses back, clumsy, not knowing what to do with his tongue, and Sam grips his waist, lifts, insists. Dean flashes a hand to cover Sam's but he lifts with it, helping, and Jack rips his mouth away to moan, his head tipping back against Sam's shoulder, and just like that—jesus. Dean's fucking Jack, their bodies working, and it's—every bit as hot as Sam thought it would be.

Sam's so hard he's smearing against Jack's back, but he ignores it, has to. Dean's got his heels braced on the bed, rolling his hips easy and smooth, a steady pump that has Jack letting out these hot high breaths with every coast inside. He's uncoordinated, his skin quivery, and Sam has to help, holding his hips, helping him rock into it. "How's it feel?" Sam says, hot-faced, and Jack can't answer, so Dean does—says, rough-sweet, "It's good, god—yeah, it feels good, doesn't it, Jack? Feel me in there? That stretch?"

"Ye-ah," Jack says—a hitch in it, broken—and Sam pushes him down a little harder, meets Dean's stroke a little rougher, and he gasps and rides it, finally, faster, chasing. Dean's jerking his dick, slippery with the lube, and Sam lets Jack take over the stroke and finds his nipples instead, rolling them, kissing Jack's shoulders and scraping with his teeth—and it's too soon, too fast, when Dean says, raw and delighted, "Oh, sweetheart, already? Yeah—yeah, you're getting there—come on—" and Sam groans and lifts up, wraps an arm around Jack's ribs and looks, and Dean's jerking him knowing and fast and Jack moans and squirms his asshole down around Dean's dick and comes—spurting—covering Dean's fist, spattering his stomach. Dean's eyes scrunch closed—that flexing ripple, inside—and Sam drops a hand to play with the dribbling head of Jack's dick, feeling him jerk and shake, his body overcome, quivering. Theirs.

Theirs. Fuck. Sam licks his lips, insane-feeling. "Dean," he says, and Dean opens his eyes and they're nearly black, his whole body flushed and ready. Dean nods at him and grips Jack, taking his shoulders—shushing, with Jack starting to almost-shiver—but Sam can't wait any longer. He finds the lube, discarded by Dean's hip—Dean's stroking Jack's back, helping him curl down, and they're kissing—soft, sweet—and Dean's still buried up in Jack's hole, breaking him open thick and dark, and Sam pushes and Dean pulls and Jack lifts off, Dean pulling out of him—and god it's tempting, already busted-open, sore-red and worked and wet—but he's shivering, overwhelmed, and Sam pushes Dean's legs further apart and lifts his hips just enough—Dean helps, pushing up on his heels—and they _do_ have practice, and there's lube to spare, and he fucks inside his brother without any stretching, any prep, and it's brutally tight and Dean jerks, his body jolting even with Jack's weight on top of him. "What—" Jack says, but it doesn't matter—the world spirals, because it's just—them, Sam pushing inside and Dean letting him in, welcoming it, his dick thick and wet and jerking against Jack's asscheek—and Jack lifts up, turns his head, and Sam pulls him back by the neck in a thoughtless arch and kisses him, shoving in, claiming—this, his home, all he'd wanted in the first place.

He blinks, afterward. Sags. He has—warm skin under his hands, flesh between his teeth. He bit—oh, god, Jack's shoulder. He lifts his head and Jack's holding onto him, gripping the back of his neck—and Dean, there, his eyes slits, his cheeks flushed. "Fuck," Sam says, stupid, and Dean grins tiredly, his hands loose on Sam's hips. Sam's still inside him, pulsing, and pulls out—careful, slow, and even so Dean's expression ripples.

He backs up, enough to see, and breaks Jack's grip on him. Come-spatter up Jack's back—good. Dean's legs sprawl wide, and it looks—okay. Jesus.

"Is it always like that?" Jack says. Uncertain again, curious.

"Nah, not everyone's a caveman," Dean says.

Sam flushes. Jack's still perched on his knees, above Dean's belly, looking back at Sam curiously. "I—sorry if I freaked you out," Sam says. He touches Jack's shoulder, where there's an actual ring of toothmarks. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Jack says, earnest enough that he really means it. He's pink in the face, still. "It was—I, um."

"It was hot," Dean says. Sam squeezes his knee but Dean just raises his eyebrows, daring Sam to contradict. "Good vocab, Jack. Sometimes things are just hot."

"Hot," Jack repeats, like it actually is new vocabulary, and Sam closes his eyes, mortified, and swings off the bed even if it feels like his legs might be too weak to carry him.

That washcloth, wet again with warm water from the sink. He takes his time, running the water over the rag, trying not to look at himself in the mirror.

Behind him, Jack says, "That was…"

Sam turns around. Dean has sat up, his shoulders to the brick wall, and Jack's still mostly in his lap but they're more of a height, now. Jack's chewing his lip and Dean touches his mouth, tugs so he stops. "It was fun," Dean says, easy. Jack blinks at him. "Orgasms for everybody and no one got hurt. Lot of days end worse."

Jack huffs. Coughs. "Yeah," he says. Shy, sweet.

Sam finally crosses the few steps back to the bed and says, quietly, "Lift up," and Jack rises enough on his knees for Sam to clean him up—wiping his belly, his ass. Between his legs, careful, mopping up the lube that got absolutely everywhere. He takes care of Dean, too, and touches the inside of Dean's thigh, and finally leans around Jack and gets the kiss he needs—Dean's hand in his hair, the familiar taste of him.

"Oh," Jack says, soft, and when Sam pulls away Jack's looking at them like he just saw something entirely new.

He glances at Dean, who lifts a shoulder. Who knows. "All right, kiddo," Dean says, patting Jack's hip, and when Jack lifts off Dean's lap it's like—a spell breaks. Reality, dipping in. The bunker still stretched all around them—the responsibility, of what they just did, settling down on Sam's heart.

"Jack," Sam says, and doesn't know what to say.

Jack shakes his head, though. "It's okay," he says, and smiles, sitting with one hip still on the bed. "I know, that was maybe weird, what we did, but I'm—okay. I feel good."

"Yeah?" Dean says. He's giving Jack that considering look.

Jack nods. "Thank you," he says, and doesn't seem to care that Dean makes a face. "I… that was exactly what I wanted."

Sam touches his shoulder, feeling somehow like there should be more, but Jack only gives him another smile and then stands up, naked and pale. He steps into his flannel pants, holds his tee in both hands. "Can we have pancakes in the morning?" he says, to Dean.

Dean frowns. "Anything you want," he says, and Jack nods, and then—disappears out the door, closing it softly behind himself.

They're left naked, both staring at the door.

"What the fuck," Dean says.

Sam sits, turned over. "I—" he starts, impotently, but—what did he expect? Cuddling, going to sleep with Jack between them? Jack doesn't know what people do after sex, because that was the first sex he had.

Dean slings an arm around his pulled-up knee, tipping his head back against the wall. His eyes are still on the door. "He's not telling us something."

Sam nods. At least once. That was how he'd put it. Like he didn't think he'd get another chance.

"Sam." He focuses and Dean's looking at him, instead, sidelong. "I'd do it again."

Jack's head thrown back. His easy pleasure. "Me, too," Sam says, and the surge of guilt—doesn't come. God. What is wrong with them.

Dean snorts, and holds his hand out. "Well, as long as we're on the same nasty-ass page," he says, and when Sam takes his hand Dean pulls, and Sam's left without much choice but to crawl up beside him, to sling his arm around Dean's shoulders and sit, together, warm and sated.

Trouble's brewing, but it's not here yet. Sam drags his thumb up Dean's arm and Dean sighs, tips his head back. They're here, safe, and Dean's home. His eyes, when he looks over at Sam, clear. "I vote that Cas is the one who teaches him how to fuck girls," Dean says, after a minute, and Sam tips his head in, laughs even if it's vile.

"Maybe we should pick someone who didn't die last time he slept with a woman," Sam says, relieved to be joking, and Dean hoots, whacks Sam with a pillow, tells him he's terrible, smiles free.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/632027469780811776/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-andthenweburned)
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


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